


The Comatose Diaries (A Spinoff Of BookwormgirlLH 's "Together")

by kenpile



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: Coma, Hurt and comfort, M/M, Major character death - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 09:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7216489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenpile/pseuds/kenpile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Terry Gilliam still in a Coma, Eric Idle still deathly ill, and Terry Jones not having any feeling in a few of his digits, the rest of the Python Comedy Troupe mourns their losses, and possibly lose themselves too?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Comatose Diaries (A Spinoff Of BookwormgirlLH 's "Together")

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6900880) by [Monty Python Fan (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Monty%20Python%20Fan). 



> As many of you know, a while ago our Beloved BookwormgirlLH deleted all of her fics! Lucky for us, she came back ! She is a gift!  
> But when she left, she still had not posted the conclusion to her wonderful fic, "Together".  
> Me and four of my friends, who have chosen the following pseudonyms(Idle-Lover, Linty Jack, Shreky Jones, and Vanilla Sub), were distraught. We needed an ending. So that night, we all opened a google doc and wrote this. This is nothing like the actual conclusion to the story, but it is how we chose to let things play out.  
> We have had this all written for a little over a month but only chose to share it now. 
> 
> I can only hope you enjoy it.

Terry Jones looked down at his arm. It was still broken on the elbow and he had another surgery planned for the next day. He was a little n-n-n-n-nervous! The first surgery did little to nothing to make him feel better about going under anesthetic. Especially since they botched the surgery. He just couldn’t trust doctors anymore.WELL, there was ONE doctor he could trust. And he just so happened to be sitting across the table from him wondering why Terry was starting to tear up.

“J-j-j-j-jonesy.. W-w-w-w-w-w-what’s go-go-go-going on? You know there’s nothing to be n-n-n-n-n-n-n-nervous about, d-d-d-don’t you?” Gray grabbed his hands in his own and held them. (this fic is tagged as hurt and comfort)

“I’m honestly just feeling a little nervous, Gray. I don’t really trust those doctors to do my surgery right the second time. What if they mess up again? And what if they mess up on the anesthetic this time? What if i never wake up like Terry?”

Gray got up and walked around to the other side of the table so he was behind him, giving him a big hug. “T-t-t-that’s not g-g-going to happen, Jonesy. I p-promise.”

Terry had started to sniffle and cry a bit. He was really scared. Seeing Terry cry, though… Gray was turned on. Knowing this was not the time, Gray shoved his LIBIDO’s needs aside and   
focused on trying to cheer up his friend.

“T-t-t-t-t-t-this s-s-s-s-s-s-surgery will h-h-help you. Your arm will be f-f-f-fine and g-g-g-good ag-g-g-gain and then w-w-w-we can… Well once you have f-f-feeling in your arm, I f-f-f-f-figured you could.. J-j-j-j-jacc me off ;---)”

Terry sniffled one last time, wiped the snot off his nose with his sleeve, then said “Why would we have to wait for me to have feeling in my arm when my tight little asshole could jack your dick right now?”

Graham inhaled sharply. If the tears weren’t getting to him enough, now there was snot, and - and an offer like that! Gray took out a small empty flask from his pocket to collect the tears from Terry’s cheeks. (saving to use as lube later). Graham sobered up instantly. ‘’I-I-I-I-I’m gonna f-f-f-f-fuck that t-t-t-tight l-l-l-little h-h-hole of yours.’’ Gray grabbed Terry’s bad arm to pull him up from the table and lead him to The Bedroom™. Terry yelped in pain ! “OCH!” 

“I’m s-s-s-sorry love! I d-d-didn’t mean to h-h-hurt you, I p-p-promise.” Gray cupped Terry’s cheek in his hand and kissed him. He just slapped a wet one right on his already-wet-from-crying face.  
“It’s okay, Gray. Honestly, it’s an easy mistake to make. It’s not like I have a sling on or anything..”

“L-l-l-listen, Old Chap™, let me make it u-u-up to y-y-y-y-you. I f-f-feel s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-so b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-bad that I’ve h-h-h-h-h-h-hurt you..” He grabbed Terry’s shoulders to turn him to face himself. “L-l-l-l-look me in the eyess, Terry.” Terry looked him in the eyes. “Terry… I’m g-g-g-g-g-going to let you s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-suck my little t-t-tiny tits and then my b-b-b-big huge w-w-w-weiner.”

Terry licked his lips hungrily. He wanted that DICK inside of him! “I want you PENIS inside of me, Gray! Good heavens!”

Gray then knew what he had to do. He HAD to give Terry what he wanted. After all, he was his little Frog Prince™. They had reached The Bedroom™ door now, and Graham opened the door and led Terry in. “I n-n-n-n-need you to lie d-d-d-down on the bed now, Jonesy. D-d-d-d-daddie is gonna fuck you g-g-good and hard...if that’s w-w-w-what you want.. I could fuck you n-nice and gently if you’d r-r-rather.. Or I could fuck you s-s-slow and make you c-c-c-cry while screaming out my name o-o-o-or...”

“Listen, honey ;;;-). I don’t care how you do it, to be honest. I just want your COCK in my ASS. I want you to make me…”

“C-c-c-c-c-cum?”

“Yeah, alright.”

Graham then climbed up on the bed too, and began working on getting the clothes off of his Fuck Doll of the Night™. The question was, does he keep Terry’s sling on his arm? Or did he let his injury flop around, like a fish out of water? Was he going to inflict pain on Terry, just because it would get himself off easier? (Pain kink?)

 

Well, Terry was naked now. Naked besides the fact that he’s got a big ugly sling on his arm. But nonetheless, he was naked. His dick was out. That’s all that mattered. His dick and his marvelous hole. His tight little asshole. His sphincter. His anus. 

And so, Terry was spread eagle with his arsehole opened wide. He was lying on his back since his inferior arm could not support his weight. He wasn’t quite sure what to do now, seeing as he had never had a COCK up in his BUTTHOLE before. Was he supposed to put his legs somewhere? Maybe on the bedside table, you know, some place out of the way? Maybe his legs went inside of Gray’s asshole while Gray’s DICK was in his? He’d just wait and see what Doctor Daddie Graham Chapman™ told him to do. 

 

Graham then crawled out of his clothing like a snake shedding its skin. Like I don’t really know how he did it. His arms kind of retracted into himself and he shimmied his way out. His pants just kind of dropped off. I’m telling you, I don’t know how he did this. I can’t comprehend how he managed to pull this stunt off. Now that they were both naked (aside from Jonesy’s sling), the fucking could begin xD!

“What should I do with my legs, Daddie?” Terry asked, his bottom lip quivering and sporting a warm, wet line of drool. 

“Terry.. Don’t talk.. It’s a real turn off.. Just follow my lead, okay?” He then grabbed Terry’s legs. He also wondered what he should do with them. Should I stick them in my ass? He thought to himself. No, no, no.. I don’t want to have my prostate massaged tonight. The only stimulation I want is the friction of my DICK in a nice tight ASS! I just want to cum into a nice ass! He decided on draping Terry’s ankles over his own shoulders. Gray’s erect PRICK was aligned nicely with the asshole of his beloved. He grabbed the flask from earlier, the one with Terry’s tear drops inside, and he poured the liquid out over his COCK. He used his fingers to spread it all around, lubing up his ROD nicely. He was slick. Slick like a garden snake. Slick like the greased up hair of some ugly boy wearing a leather jacket, snapping his fingers as he walks down a darkened alleyway. Slick like a little baby sliding out of his mother’s pussy on his first birthday. Slick like the Slip N’ Slide that the little kids next door put out on their dying lawn each summer. He was ready to penetrate, but was Terry ready to be penetrated?

“T-t-t-terry? I’m going to s-s-stick my f-finger up your bum-bum n-now.”

Terry gasped as he felt the finger wiggle its way inside his anus, like an earthworm eating its way into the ground. He had never had anything go into his ass, only coming out. And I’m not just talking about feces, because he has had a few marbles and candy wrappers come out of there too. He wasn’t very comfortable, having a finger up his ass and all. But he soon grew accustomed to it. As Nolan Ryan once said, “Enjoying success requires the ability to adapt. Only by being open to change will you have a true opportunity to get the most of your talent.” So Terry just let his asshole adapt to having a finger in it, and he hoped for success.

“Terry? I-i-i-i’m adding a second d-d-digit.” Gray then shoved another finger into the deep dark cave that one might refer to as The Asshole of Terry Jones™. 

“OOOOOOH THAT IS NIIIIIICE XD!” Terry moaned with pleasure. Did Gray just hit his prostate? Was his prostate hit by Gray’s finger? Was he going to cum right now ? Right this instant? No… He’d have to wait. He had never done it before, but somehow he knew that the only way he wanted to cum tonight was with a big, fat, pink English COCK up his smelly, brown Welsh (Oddly Shaped™) RECTUM.

“Y-y-y-you like that? Are y-you r-r-ready for Daddie’s COCK?”

Terry nodded his head as to say “yes”. He was confirming that, indeed, it was affirmative that he wanted that PENIS in him.

Gray then took his fingers out of that wonderful butthole. His DICK was aligned and ready for entrance. “H-h-h-here I CUM!” He delved in. 

“AAAOOOOOHHHH FUCK GET THAT FUCKIGN THINNG OUT OF ME WHAT THE FUCK?!!” Terry was yelling !

“T-t-t-terry?” The dick came out. “A-a-are you alright?”

Terry smiled. “Gotcha! That wasn’t pain. It was pleasure. You were fucking my ass and I loved it. I’m not really hurt. I pranked you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What can I say, I love attention.”  
Graham then did his fake laugh. You know the one. The one from the sketch about buying a bed when he plays Mr. Lambert. “O-o-oh, Terry. You had me f-fooled!” He then plunged back in!  
In and out! In and out! Over and over! His COCK was really giving a good old rug burn to the inside of Terry’s rump.

Terry was having the time of his life! His prostate was being struck again and again! (That is how people get off on assfucking is the prostate gets struck and the cum comes out xD).

“Gray, I’m… I’m gonna-”

“D-d-don’t talk - Act. D-don’t s-say - Show. Don’t promise - p-prove!” Gray ordered him, recalling a quote he saw on pinterest once.

Terry then came all over the place. Sperm flew out of his dick at speeds even Sonic the Hedgehog would marvel at. It shot out and it landed. It landed on his stomach, it landed on the bed sheets, it landed on Graham’s eyelid, it even landed on his own tongue (Terry recalled trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue when he was younger, and he decided that this just wasn’t the same thing.) It even landed on John, who is somewhere else completely and hasn’t appeared in this chapter yet, so you can imagine the look of disgust on his face that this was his first mention. Graham was still pumping his COCK into Terry. “T-t-that’s right.. You are D-daddy’s Cum D-Dumpster™.” He then came into Terry’s ass so hard that ejaculate came out of Terry’s ears, mouth, and nose. He pulled out, yawned, scratched his left asscheek, then promptly fell asleep.  
This left Terry to lie awake alone. He was still nervous about his surgery, but admittedly he felt a little better after being the recipient of such a nice assfucking. He just hoped that the morning would never come, and that he could lie in bed with his Daddie forever.

\-----------------

Gray got up in the night, seeing that Terry was still asleep next to him. Graham - who, we must not forget, is an alcoholic - and gay! - and a doctor! - leaned over to his bedside table, grabbed a bottle and started drinking (that part is do with him being an alcoholic) and thinking about Terry (that part is to do with him being gay). He could barely comprehend the wonders of last night. The way Terry had moaned, the way Terry had gasped; the way Terry had made that odd choking sound when Graham had accidentally ***** his ******* - god, he was gorgeous. And Graham was so worried for him, now. He knew he oughtn’t be, because he was a doctor (see that reference!) and should really know better than to worry over a broken arm - but I’ll be honest, we have an angst quota to fill, and morning-after angst just won’t cut it. Graham was just so worried. What if Terry died? Or worse - what if Terry decided he didn’t want Graham’s dicky-doo any more? The possibility terrified him.

\-----------------

Terry was in surgery. He was only distantly aware of this, as he was under a light touch of anaesthetic. Which really had a wonderful habit of messing with the mind. So, although he was in surgery, in the far corners of his mind he could also have been being a) plowed by Graham, b) succing the Dick, or c) in surgery. It was all a bit hazy, really. Still, he tried to concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing - the nurse, who had looked strangely like John, had told him to “Count down from 10, you little Welsh tart”, and although everything was blacked out now he was still definitely counting down. Nine… Eight…. graham’s cock….. Six….  
Vaguely, he felt a shiver of concern about the dangers of surgery. He’d had to sign forms before the operation; papers assuring the doctors his family wouldn’t sue if he copped it, that sort of mundane thing. But now - now he started to worry. Not because of the possibility of death; rather, what if something went so horribly wrong that he couldn’t… his heart pounded…. He couldn’t ‘do the do’ with Graham anymore? That possibility TERRYfied him (see, it’s not a repeat of the last paragraph because… Terry… Terryfied… xD… ).

\-------------  
Graham was in the hospital waiting room. As he paced back and forth impatiently, he had nightmarish memories of that first night here - the night that dear, sweet American Boy (yo, Estelle, we ‘bout to get down (get down)) was struck down by that devilish driver. Gilliam didn’t deserve that. Hell, none of them deserved any of this. But he couldn’t let those self-pitying thoughts make him lose hope. In just a few short hours, Jonesy would be awake, and hopefully have his arm fixed for real this time.

But the clock ticked on and on and on. Hours passed. The big hand would swing around a full rotation while the little hand would move another 1/12th of the way around. When the time had come for Terry to be supposedly awake and well, he just wasn’t. Graham was really starting to worry when Terry was two hours late in arising. 

Graham was just beginning to think he needed to get a drink when suddenly a nurse came out into the common area. “Mister Doctor Chapman?”

“Yes, m-m-ma’am?”

“Please come this way, the doctors have some news for you.”  
\-------------  
Graham knelt beside Terry’s bedside. He took his hand in his own and squeezed, and he felt sick to his stomach when there was nothing in return, no sign of life. 

“Doctor Chapman.. Mr. Jones is in a comatose state. There must have been an issue in his system with the anaesthetic. We’re sorry, there is nothing we can do.” And then the docs left him there. They left him with his Comatose Baby Boy.

“I c-c-can’t believe those b-bastards did this to you Terry… My sweet little c-c-cum bucket.. I can’t believe they’ve d-d-done this to us.. They’ve taken you a-a-away.” Graham was shaking. He was so absolutely devastated. That’s two Terrys he’s lost this month.. That’s two Terrys too many.

Graham then had a flashback; A memory from the night before:

“What if they mess up again? And what if they mess up on the anesthetic this time? What if i never wake up like Terry?”

“T-t-t-that’s not g-g-going to happen, Jonesy. I p-promise.”

Fuck. He had promised Terry that exactly this would not happen. What kind of friend was he? How could he live with himself now? He could hear Terry’s squeaky, indignant voice in his head: Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you meant what you promised. Silly me. 

Graham couldn’t sit by this little Welsh man’s bedside anymore. The guilt consumed him. Terry’s voice still haunted him, and he kept hearing things like this:

Promises mean everything, but once they are broken, they mean nothing.

One lie can ruin a thousand truths.

Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

Promises are worse than lies. Because you make them hope, hope for something you’re not sure you can give.

If you don’t mean it, don’t fucking say it.

Three things you should not break - Promises, trust, and someone’s heart.

Graham abruptly stood up and ran out of the room, not being able to stand the sight of his beautiful, comatose friend. He ran until he was all the way back home, away from Terry, but not away from the ghosts of his mind.

The only thing he could think to do to stop this feeling: Drink. He went to his liquor cabinet. He grabbed a new bottle of gin. “B-b-bottoms up,” he muttered to himself. He drank it in just one go. His throat was burning, but so were his thoughts. There was fire inside him, and he was trying to put it out with alcohol, which if you know anything you would know that alcohol is highly flammable. @DrGrahamChapmanMD, you should really know this. But yet, he drank, and when that bottle was empty he grabbed another, and then he drank some more, and then suddenly the lights were out. He had passed out, only worse. He was... Comatose…. Or, if you’d rather, In a coma. With no way of knowing if he’d ever come out of it.  
\-------------  
Meanwhile, Michael was cheerfully and obliviously planning a trip abroad. He knew it was probably an awful idea, what with Eric being ill and everyone else’s death being foreshadowed by the writers in an extremely heavy-handed manner, but he’d already booked the flight so there wasn’t exactly much he could do about it.

Breaking the news to Eric would be easy - he was so delirious at the moment that Michael would probably be able to get away with mumbling something along the lines of:  
“All right, just nipping up to the North Pole - I mean the shops! Ha, ha.” - and scarper.

The others would be a tad more difficult. Which is why, after long and hard thought, he’d simply decided not to tell them at all. And there would be absolutely no consequences of this, whatsoever.

Anyway, ever since Jack - sorry, John (why did he always get his name wrong?) had chosen him as the recipient for his Big Terry Confession, Michael couldn’t help but feel awkward around Jack - uh - John. What if the man started confessing every little secret he’d ever had?

“I realise this may be an inconvenient time, but would you mind awfully if I chatted with you about the innermost workings of my mind and faltering approach to romance?”

Or worse: “Hate to corner you like this, Mikey, but did you know I’ve had a nasty boil on my botty for 6 years?”

No, that would never work. John needed someone close to him to talk to - someone he could be in a relationship with - like Mike and Eric! Yes, he really needed to be in a healthy, stable relationship like theirs (somewhere, somehow, Eric started choking on a cough. Mike didn’t hear him, so lost was he in his thoughts of nothing in particular).

Unfortunately, John’s preferable significant other was still locked in his own mind, comatose and completely unable to contribute anything to that relationship. Pity, really.

Of course, this was the precise moment that John himself chose to enter the room. It seemed oddly convenient, almost as if the writer had gotten bored with the story and injected another character to make things more interesting - but Michael would just have to make the best of the situation.

“Hello, Jack - John,” he said amiably, gesturing John into the room amiably and sending him an amiable smile. 

John avoided his gaze, sighing heavily and crossing the room towards Michael.

“Hello, Mikey, Mickey, Mousey,” was the muttered reply. 

Michael frowned in concern at his taller companion. 

“Well, you don’t sound particularly happy now, do you?” he said, stating the obvious - as was seemingly the purpose of his character in this intricate tale. Such is the burden of being the nice one.

John sighed again, as he was wont to do throughout this aforementioned convoluted story (see? This writer can use synonyms! Isn’t that a gift.).

“I’m not, Michael, I’m really not,” he continued to sigh. “I’m just… A little bit sad and lonely.”

Michael looked at him dubiously. “I thought that was Terry’s line.”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

John sighed glumly - yet another succulent piece of evidence for his sad and lonely emotional status - and sat down next to Michael. This made things a little bit awkward, as Mike himself wasn’t actually sitting down; he was standing but - oh, well, it doesn’t really contribute to the plot, so we’ll pretend he was.

“It’ll be alright, John,” said Michael, suddenly sitting cross-legged on the floor.

John grunted noncommittally. Then, “Michael?”

“...Yes, Jack - shit! - John?”

“I realise that this might be an inconvenient time, what with Eric being ill, and you being busy, but -”  
Michael grimaced. “Don’t tell me. You have … a wart. On your posterior. And you want to tell me all about it.”

John looked at him oddly. “No.”

“Oh.”

“I was going to ask you what you think I should do about Terry,” John continued. “I mean - there’s not much I can do, but I feel so… so helpless…” and, uncharacteristically, yet somehow a given in this sort of story, burst into tears. 

Michael didn’t really know what to do; he’d already had his emotional breakdown in a much earlier chapter, and felt ill-qualified to deal with someone else’s - although he might have betted on it being John.

“Why don’t you take a walk outside? Clear your head?” he suggested gently. 

John sniffed snottily. “Alright,” he mumbled, and stood up. Michael stayed sitting down, hoping John wouldn’t invite him along - really, he had a trip to plan.

Thankfully, John wandered aimlessly away, and Michael watched him go, frowning in concern. He wondered briefly if perhaps John wasn’t in a good state to be wandering around alone (foreshadowing! foreshadowing! foresh-) but quickly convinced himself that John would be fine (lulling into a false sense of security! lulling into a-).

\----

Mike said that going outside for a stroll would be the best way to sooth the storm that tormented him day after day after day, keeping him awake at night, making him yearn and simmer in tortured agony that only starving artists could ever dream of achieving. John listened to the advice of his friend, his dear, dear friend that he could count on, unlike that miserable Welsh git that buzzed around him constantly like a pesky fly, and he decided to take the advice of his dear, dear friend that he could count on, unlike that miserable Welsh git that buzzed around him constantly like a pesky fly to heart and fully embrace the words he spoke.

He went out strolling, hands stuff in his pockets, inhaling the London air and pretending like it was the best thing he had ever inhaled, trying to create his own happiness. It occurred to him as he was walking that he was incredibly fortunate to be able to do such a thing, that he had two legs to walk around on, and then he thought about how Terry also had two legs to walk around on too, but couldn’t. He was as good as fucking dead. Goddammit.

John was suddenly engulfed in complete ANGST, worse than Hamlet, worse than every emo kid on the face of the planet, worse than the worst despair anyone could have ever possibly felt ever, and in his anguish he cried out at the top of his lungs, so loudly that all of London could hear him, and he bolted towards the street ahead.

As soon as he started, however, he stopped himself. Not yet. He couldn’t surrender so easily so soon. There was one thing he had to check on first -- Gilliam.

His heart pounded as he hurried towards the hospital. It was so far away; he felt he wasn’t getting any closer the more he walked. He feared that something awful would happen in the time he took to get there, and that when he arrived the man who desired to see would be gone from him forever. The very thought made his heart ache and his knees quake and his mouth drier than a drought, but he had to keep pushing on… for Gilliam.

Without realizing it, he had appeared at the hospital. He blinked in surprise; his obsessive wondering about what had happened to Terry had carried him all the way there. John opened the doors of the hospital with a trembling hand, and continued up the stairs to where he was at… he being Terry Gilliam.

John was completely numb. Halfway up the stairs, he asked himself if there was any point to all this, if he was ever going to end up with Gilliam whether he woke up or not, or if he was going to have his heart broken more by continually visiting him or not visiting him at all. But he had to do it, he had to do it all for Gilliam.

At last, he was at the ICU. He was dying to know, and yet, he didn’t want to know at all, in case worst came to worst, in case Gilliam--

The doctors were clattering, all running to the same room… the room belonging to Gilliam.

A frigid wave of sorrow washed over him. Before he knew it, he was barging downstairs again, shoving everyone out of his way, ignoring the cries of protests and chastisement until he was outside, charging at the street just like he had tried only twenty minutes before. This was the only way he could wake up from this everlasting nightmare.

The cars collided into his oversized body, horns honking like a cacophonous symphony. It was all so beautifully tragic that one could hear art film critics jacking off at the same time all across the world, and John’s body crumbled to the ground, blood dripping from every orifice, waiting for the sweet release of death. He couldn’t live in a world where he was responsible for the man of his dreams being comatose. He couldn’t allow himself to live if the love of his life and light of his groin never got to wake up and experience everything in the time he was supposed to have left to live if it weren’t for his coma.

“For you... Gilliam,” John choked out as people swarmed around his body. He took one last shuddering breath, pictured the American artist clearly in his mind, and died.

If only he had stayed in the hospital for a moment longer, he would have known it wasn’t Gilliam’s room at all that the doctors were heading towards...  
\-------------

Meanwhile, in another part of town, Tall Blond Scottish Mum Dominatrix Power Bottom Switch Bisexual Eric Idle™, was still endlessly suffering from whatever cancer he had gotten due to his food poisoning. ‘’Aye, my wee lad. This is it, me time has run out, ya kno? I'm gonna kick the bucket.’’ and he fucking died. Rip ERic. Michael wouldn’t have found out anyway. He never even sent his lover to the GP’s in the first place, so why bother finding out he died? Michael was going to be mummified on the freezin’ North Pole. He couldn’t care less about his BF dying from being Too Dramatic™. His Sodding Penis™ was going to freeze off, for heaven's sake! He had other things to care about. Afterall, it wasn’t like Eric was the best sex he’s ever had…… :(

So, there he lay. Eric ‘’Guy’’™ Idle, on the bathroom floor. He had tried to drown himself in G&T and cocaine, but it was of no use. He was dieing, day in gm, dying, just like the sunseet, sunset, was dying over the hills. He could no longer deny it. If only his cockhead of a boyfriend had not denied him of seeing a doctor. ‘’Michael and his dominance kinks.’’ He shook his head with whatever energy he had left inside him. ‘’I wish I hadn’t been such a pretty boy,’’ He wept, ‘’I wish I wasn’t the wild one of the troupe.’’ He made an irl ‘’:-(‘’ face. If only Eric Gay, i mean, Guy Idle was not such a drug addict, this stupid bug might have not affected him. Maybe this is all Michael's fault. (it was.) A single tear strolled down his cheeky cheek. He wiped it away as it might suggest being non-masculine, which could expose his bisexuality. ‘’I LOVE eating PUSSY!’’ he grunted to the silence of the house, as he wasn’t sure if he was truly alone. ‘’Man, do I love eating birds cunts! HA!’’

This dying had taken up quite a bit of time. Eric was starting to feel fucking fed up with dying. ‘’Ya, lad, I’ve had enough of this shite.’’ He rolled over to his side, which now felt fucking cold, because that’s how bathroom tiles work. ‘’I’m cold.’’ He pouted. He sighed once more and pushed his body up so he could sit down with his bare arse on the cold bathroom floor. Of course, Eric had been naked, because if he was going to die, it was to be the glorious way out; drunk, naked and full of self-pity. He stretched a bit, and forced himself to get up. He reached for the towel on the sink, to pull himself up to a standing position. But being the stupid Scottish Mum Blond Dom Switch™ that he is, he did not realise the towel was not secured to anything. It simply hung over the sink. Eric janked the towel off, and fell over. His chin met the sink with a loud thud, breaking the sink. The Scotsman fell down, head first on the floor. And if that wasn’t awful enough, the sink came down on top of his head. Blood gently streamed out of his nose and eyes. A small dent had been made in the back of his skull, making his brain explode in surprise. He must have been at least comatose. The scenery in the bathroom could be compared to that of a slightly more awful Hitchcock film; There was no Jack Nicholson to succ him off, blood and bits of brain had been spread all over the bathroom, and Eric’s naked, comatose body lay lifeless on the floor. What a daft, bloody moron, that Idle was. 

The Ghost of Eric Guy Idle™ soon arose from his comatose and temporarily lifeless body. ‘’Oi, this is fun’’ The Ghostly Remains of the Once Still Very Alive E. Idle™ noticed. He looked at his own, motionless form laying on the floor. ‘’Ya bloody idiot.’’ He shook his spiritual head at himself in the physical world. ‘’Ya got yaself killed, ya right out cunt.’’   
‘’Ya happy now?’’  
‘’Of course you aint, mate, you dead.’’

‘’Hold on a second. This could be quite fun…’’ Ghost Eric had scratched his imaginary beard. ‘’I suppose now that nobody’s around…… I could fuck myself……….’’ His remainders descended so he was perfectly aligned with real-world Eric’s own perky arse. He extended his beautiful bisexual arms, and let his fingers get a feel of his bouncy butt. He let out a small groan at the feel of his own, perfect bum and continued to squeeze it. He felt tears sting in his eyes, and inhaled deeply through his nose. ‘’I’m gonna destroy that arse.’’ He looked around the room in search of some sort of lubricant, but failed to find any. He shrugged and continued patting his own behind. ‘’Well, Eric,’’ the Ghost sighed, ‘’It looks like I have to go in dry.’’ He pumped his cock in anticipation, talking dirty to himself to get himself worked up faster. ‘’I’m gonna destroy my tight hole. I’m gonna fucking wreck that shit, Eric.’’ He growled, his voice clouded with lust. ‘’I’m gonna fuck you so bad, you’re gonna forget you ever dated a small pricked cock like Michael Palin.’’ He slapped his own arse, and if the blood in his veins had been flowing at it’s usual rate, it would have left an ugly mark. He spanked himself several times before he spit on his derriere. ‘’I’ll give you a little bit of lubricant, make things easier to handle in the dreamworld.’’ He then placed his hands on the cold tiled floor, and pushed himself into his own tight entrance with force. ‘’Gaaaaaahhhh, oh my God, baby, I’m so fucking tight.’’ He looked down at his Peen, and saw he had only pushed his tip in. A devious smirk appeared on his asymmetric face. ‘’I am having the time of my life here, Eric.’’ He grinned as he pushed in further, so his full length (2.5 proud inches, mind you) were deeply buried inside his own arse. He groaned and his shit eating grin grew even wider as he started to thrust. ‘’Oooohh, Eric, Baby. Ya right up cunt. Your tight hole feels so lovely.’’ Ghost Eric was driving his cock into his arse at such fast rate, IRL Eric’s body started to move. His head was now completely covered by the sink, at it started to overshadow his shoulders as well. As GE (or Ghost Eric, if you will) pushed deeper and deeper into his own arse, the bathroom got steamier and the sweet sound of whimpering and the thuds of Eric’s body being pushed onto the floor and slipping further and further away underneath the bathroom sink. ‘’Eric…. Doll…. I’m about to cum so deeply in your tight hole…… I won’t last much longer.’’ He gave a few final pushes and came with a loud roar. ‘’AAAARRGHH!’’ He cried as he waited for the pulsing to cease and pulled out of his arse. He lay down beside himself, puffed out several ragged breaths and patted Physical Eric on the shoulder. ‘’Nice going there, Champ.’’ And with those final words, he passed out. Exhausted, yet satisfied as fuck.

\------------------

 

Whilst most of the pythons - (that is; Monty Python, a British surreal comedy group who created the sketch comedy show Monty Python's Flying Circus, that first aired on the BBC on 5 October 1969. Forty-five episodes were made over four seasons. The Python phenomenon developed from the television series into something larger in scope and impact, spawning touring stage shows, films, numerous albums, several books, and a stage musical. And a really odd fanfiction or two.) were Suffering in the ICU, one man named Michael - who, funnily enough, was also a python - was on a plane.

It all seemed rather idyllic - here he was, in first class, surrounded by water and an insidiously unsteady hunk of metal, swept away from the troubles of friends and family, on his way to the North Pole. A fitting end, he thought, to - wait, end? What kind of hideously obvious kind of foreshadowing was that? Something befitting his own hideously obvious character type, he supposed glumly, staring out of the window and trying to muster up some of that earlier obliviousness. He’d rather not think about the fact that he was probably going to die in this fic, plane crash AU or not.

Still, at least he wasn’t John. John who’d “gone out on a walk” without any of the symbolism of death (sike), or Eric - god knows what had happened to him. Michael was tempted to feel a pang of guilt at abandoning his lover, but, in a sudden burst of mean-spiritedness quite out of character for him (A/N: this if FANFIC REmebER!!! i can do wat i want wiv da character!!!XD), he considered the fact that good old ‘egocentric Eric’ would probably find his own company more preferable to anyone else’s.

That last sentence had no connection to the fact that earlier, dear reader, you watched Eric literally fuck himself. The relationship between the two instances is entirely coincidental.

He did wonder what had happened to Terry and Graham. Last time he’d seen them, they’d been a bit of a mess; whether that was their fault or the writers’ though was debatable. He hoped they were happy, at least, and not - say - comatose; that’d be awful, if fittingly ironic. 

Still, it did seem disappointingly likely: Terry, with his surgery that ‘couldn’t possibly go wrong’, Graham with his alcoholic tendencies (and homosexuality - Gray was gay, a doctor and an alcoholic, just in case you’d forgotten!); there could be no happy ending there. 

Michael sat back in his chair, pleased with himself. He felt he’d come a long way from the ‘obvious guy who states the obvious’ - now, he seemed to have accomplished a distinct habit of foreshadow-reading. Which was probably because the writers needed him to rather than actually improving his character writing, but he chose to ignore that part for the sake of continued fourth-wall-breaking contemplations.

He also tactfully ignored the fact that nearly every other character had a sex scene, whilst his only contribution was someone else’s confession about his ‘alleged’ dominance kink™; the difference was that he didn’t so much ignore it as didn’t know about it - look, we can’t have an omniscient character; that’d just be going too far. Between you and me, it’s probably best that he didn’t know about it - that sort of secret being uncovered can really damage a guy’s self-worth, especially for a character as doltish/nice as Mike.

Well, this has gone off topic now. Best kill off Mike before too much else happens in that vapid, insipid thoughtspace. There goes the plane! There it goes. Falling. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Yes, actually. The Plane Crash AU has fulfilled its purpose. 

Michael was… Comatose™. 

\---------

 

Meanwhile, in his not at all comfortable hospital bed, Gilliam was still in a coma. You know how everyone always says like “You never know what it’s like being in a coma”. Well Gilliam did because he was in one and it was not epic at all. He could feel the nurses touching his dICK when they tried to wash his body, like, what the fuck, that’s my dICK ? Don’t touch it? He could also hear a weird noise that kinda sounded like John’s cries but thinking about John crying made him hard so he had to restrain himself from doing so. Also, in contrary to some beliefs, he could hear everything that had been said in his hospital room, and let me tell you that Gray’d better stop with this stuttering because he sounded even more illiterate than Gilliam himself. Also where the hell did it come from? He wasn’t stuttering a week ago? Gilliam was starting to think that Gray was being a fake bitch, but that was none of his business, so whatever. 

Honestly, being in a coma was kinda fun but Terence Vance was beginning to wish he could wake the fuck up and interact with his mate. Just do some simple little daily interactions. Like sucking John’s dick, you feel? John’s salty, tiny, inverted dick... Yummy. He also missed doing his animations. God gracious, even THAT made him think about John. He remembered that first bit of animation they did together. John falling in love with a barbie doll. Oh how he wish he’d been that doll… for so long he cried himself to sleep, thinking about John, and now that he was his, he had to be in a coma like honestly what the fuck tabarnac. 

Ok like this was pretty out of nowhere but Gilliam started to laugh in his coma. Was he laughing in real life, probably not, that’s the whole point of being in a come I guess, but he started laughing nevertheless. But oh surprise, it was NOT out of nowhere, legit... someone was playing with his dongely-doo! (In case you didn’t know Terence Vance Gilliam is the kind of person who laughs when he’s doing the do so like don’t @ me). He could not for the love of God figure out who it was. And oddly (shaped rectum) enough, it didn’t feel like a nurse washing it, someone was really trying to make him cum and xD (like, don’t @ me, i just said it, he laughs when his dick is being pleased, i don’t make the rules). He tried to look down but then remembered he was in a coma and couldn’t open his eyes so that was a pretty dumb move.

As his Magnum Dong™ (is it magnum tho or is he trying to glorify himself here? *eyes emoji*) was getting harder, Gilliam started to hear a noise. A familiar noise… A noise that made him go hard, like real hard, like oh boy was he digging it. Fuck, he couldn’t believe his americans ears, was that John crying in his hospital room? You bet your ass reader, it was! This is a bit spooky tho, considering Gilliam was in a coma and had not given his consentment? Like … John … Go fuck someone else or Jack your Cheese off or something but that’s a bit much, sucking your comatose boyfriend. But at this point, Gilliam could not care less about the unpolitically correct aspect of the situation, he just wanted his Gigantic Genital™ (again, what is the truth?) in his lover’s cavity. (No, i’m not talking about a nostril kink, I’m just trying to make this bit a tiny more varied, therefore not using the word “mouth”)

As he felt his Dingle-Doo™ get harder, he could feel an ridiculously enormous amount of xD coming on. “If only John could weep like that every time he sucked my dick…” Vance Bitch™ started to realise that being in a coma had its own perks, and for a moment he wished he could get his comatose dick sucked by mournful John everyday. But let’s be realistic for a moment, being in a coma actually sucked, so Gilliam chased that thought away like Gray chased his ability to speak as soon the accident happened.

Anyway enough about this awful stuttering, someone (crying John) was sucking Terry’s Enormous Dingaloo™ and the American Boy™ was feeling the xD coming. But right before this very anticipated moment of xD ing pleasure, the sucking stopped. Of course, Terence couldn’t do anything about it, since he was comatose. So to his deep regret, Vance’s comatose dick went back to its original form, that being a unsucked and unpleased dick. Not very XD ish. 

If we want this thing to end, we gotta fast forward to the important part. So a few … hours? Days? Or even YEARS? Later (Vance Bitch™ couldn’t know, he was in a coma), Gilliam was still thinking about this heavenly moment John granted him. It made him so Emo™, he could almost FEEL the TEARS of EMO strolling down his face. Wai- wha- oh mY god. Was he dreaming? (no you fucking stupid ass Gilliam you’re not dreaming you’re in a coma jesus fuck) Was he hallucinating? He surely was not, he could really feel these salty little tears strolling down his face. His first reflex was, of course, the wipe them away- wAIT A SECOND! WIPE THE TEARS AWAY! WITH HIS ACTUAL MOVING FUNCTIONAL HAND! 

Now I hope you have guessed that Gilliam was slowly but surely (he still was a very Dumb American Boy™, poor angel) getting out of his coma. 

But he can’t remember anything & everyone’s dead wtf?

RIP Monty Python :^(

(In The End by Linkin Park starts playing)

epilogue.

Terry Gilliam went on to direct a lot of movies starring Not Michael Palin and Not John Cleese and Not Eric Idle and I don’t think he ever made a movie with Yes Terry Jones and Yes Graham Chapman to begin with so. He also got to make his Don Quixote film at last. The end.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay just to clarify:
> 
> I (Kenpile) wrote the parts of Jonesy and Graham.
> 
> Linty J wrote the parts of Michael.
> 
> Vanilla Sub wrote the part of Eric.
> 
> Idle-Lover wrote the part of John.
> 
> Shreky Jones wrote the part of Gilliam.
> 
> Of course, credit to bookwormgirlLH for the main concept, i really hope she is okay with us posting this. Please tell me to take it down if you aren't comfortable with this being up !!! Thank you!


End file.
